She sits at the wheel pulling cold balls of clay
centering us on the bat, foot gently feeding the pedal
pressing out our densities, opening our centers
turning us into simple vessels
built for filling.
I want to be your favorite soup-bowl
a singing teapot.
But the world is still creating us—
glazing & firing us until we have no more water, or we give up
or until someone plucks us from the kiln saying,
“You, perfect little vessel, are just what I need.”
When that happens, you are no longer organic
no longer molding Earth: you are Art, capitol A.
That’s what I want to be so fucking bad
but I’ll settle for plate. I’ll sit permanently on your bathroom sink holding your soap.
I’m just tired of being only leather-tough
sick of the world forming & decorating & tattooing designs on me.
Please, just put me on the shelf. Cracked
blemished, unfinished—I want to be useful, I want to be a vessel
I want to know my name and practicality
I want to carry something for you.
Jacob Collins-Wilson, a high school English teacher, has had poetry published in Pathos Literary Magazine as well as a short essay published by 1 Bookshelf.